


Six Hundred Light-Years

by heliocentricity



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Isolation, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29326920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentricity/pseuds/heliocentricity
Summary: Arthur tries his best to take care of Ford after a long night spent partying.  I imagine that this takes place before the events of the first radio drama, when Arthur and Ford are in that stage of a queer friendship where everything is a little gay, but they're not fully aware of it yet.  I started writing this to explore Ford’s sense of isolation on Earth, but I think I just ended up psychoanalyzing myself, so this story feels a bit heavier than I was anticipating.  Side-note: Arthur is a trans man, and I’m experimenting with they/them pronouns for Ford!
Relationships: Arthur Dent/Ford Prefect
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Six Hundred Light-Years

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever write something that makes you think, “Maybe I haven’t been dealing with prolonged isolation very well, after all”? 
> 
> Anyway, this story is based on the passage from the novel that reads, “Ford was very kind – he gave the barman another five-pound note and told him to keep the change. The barman looked at it and then looked at Ford. He suddenly shivered: he experienced a momentary sensation that he didn’t understand because no one on earth had ever experienced it before. In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out a tiny subliminal signal. This signal simply communicates an exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from the place of his birth. On Earth it is never possible to be farther than sixteen thousand miles from your birthplace, which really isn’t very far, so such signals are too minute to be noticed. Ford Prefect was at this moment under great stress, and he was born six hundred light-years away in the near vicinity of Betelgeuse. / The barman reeled for a moment, hit by a shocking, incomprehensible sense of distance. He didn’t know what it meant, but he looked at Ford Prefect with a new sense of respect, almost awe.”

“You should get some sleep,” said Arthur, his breath pluming out in a grayish fog as he placed a steadying hand on Ford's shoulder. 

Ford shrugged away from him then kicked at a stray granola bar wrapper that lay discarded two feet from the nearest trash can. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” they insisted, although the kick had upset their balance and caused them to wobble slightly. Arthur wanted to steady them again but hesitated.

It was nearly 1am, and the night air stung at Arthur's nose and forced his fingers beneath the arms of his sweater for warmth. He hovered outside of Ford’s apartment, although any other night, he would have left them alone by now.

“You’re obviously not fine,” he said. “You know, when you asked me to this party tonight, I wasn’t surprised that you ditched me as soon as we stepped through the door. But I didn’t expect to find you crying into some random woman’s arms a few hours later. She said you were prattling on about spaceships or some other nonsense, and she practically begged me to take you off her hands. So, I'm calling it: You’ve had too much to drink, and the only thing for you to do now is sleep it off and deal with whatever hangover you’ve earned tomorrow.” 

Ford waved a gloved hand dismissively. “I haven’t had too much to drink. What I had at the party, that was nothing, even added to what I drank earlier. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, but the alcohol here is infuriatingly weak. Honestly, I don’t understand how you’ve managed this long without something stronger.”

Arthur frowned. He hadn't been aware that Ford was tipsy before their night even started. Sober or drunk, their personality was deafeningly loud. But Arthur would not be distracted by this unfortunate revelation. He shook his head and pressed on. “Look, your drinking streak can’t be healthy, and I don’t want to leave you here only to find out tomorrow that you bar-hopped through to sunrise.” 

Ford huffed and folded their arms across their chest. “Look, it’s none of your business what I do, okay? I’m not asking you to come drink with me.”

"Sure, it’s my business. We’re friends, aren’t we? And friends don’t just sit by and let each other do…" He gestured vaguely. "…whatever it is that you’re doing.” 

Ford had picked up the granola bar wrapper and, after shaking it out for crumbs, was examining its nutritional value. They fixed Arthur with a bewildered look and let the wrapper float to the ground, straightening up and tucking their hands behind their back. “What? I’m not doing anything.” 

Arthur scrubbed a hand down his partially numb face. “Let’s just get you inside, alright? Where are your keys?”

Still wide-eyed, Ford shrugged and turned out their empty pockets. 

“So, you forgot them again? You know what? It’s fine. This is fine. I think I still have that spare you gave me last month.”

Arthur rooted around in his jacket, retrieved a keyring, and began thumbing through it. Sure enough, there was his copy of Ford’s apartment key, a stumpy brass contraption with a green plastic alien face covering the head. Ford had given it to him with the foolish design, calling it "out of this world, like me," and winking. Arthur hadn’t known what to say in response. At first, he thought that Ford was flirting with him. But nobody ever flirted with Arthur, so he chalked it up to the bizarre tastes of most actors. Ford, with all his eccentricities, was admittedly more bizarre than most. Take their name, for instance. Arthur had asked them about it once, and Ford had explained that they had chosen it themself, although it wasn’t as good as they had anticipated. 

“Then why not change it again?” Arthur had suggested. “You know, just like I changed my name last summer.” He had nudged Ford encouragingly. “That was your idea, remember?”

Ford had grinned at the memory, then dismissed the idea. “Yeah, well, I don’t want my family to lose track of me, if they ever try to check in. What if they finally decide to come looking for me, only to be stopped dead in their tracks, because they have no clue what name I’m using?” 

“Hold on. Finally come looking for you?” he echoed. “Ford. Is everything okay?” 

Of course, Ford had changed the subject immediately afterward, pressing their fingertips to the nearby window and pointing as their attention snagged on a bowling ball-sized pug tromping past on the sidewalk. Arthur had wanted to keep questioning them for more information about their ever-elusive childhood, but… Well, the pug was very silly, and they spent the next fifteen minutes laughing over ways to describe its unsettlingly bulbous eyes.

Arthur was similarly struck by Ford’s dodgy behavior as they followed him into the lobby and up the stairs, to the flat on the third floor. Whenever he cut a glance over his shoulder to where Ford was trudging along behind him, their hands were shoved into their jacket pockets, their chin was tucked neatly into their collarbone, and their eyes were fixed on their boots. Were they trying to make a point about much they disliked the current situation? Well, no matter how unhappy Ford was, Arthur was resolute that he would not waver tonight. Sometimes, you had to show somebody that you cared about them by not hesitating to call out their self-destructive habits. He had learned that from Ford themself. Several years ago, they had helped Arthur begin his public transition by bluntly asking him questions like what was holding him back and why he cared what other people thought. It was his life, wasn’t it? Now, it was Arthur’s job to make sure that Ford didn’t throw away their own health and happiness by staying out all night, drunk as a skunk. Still, Arthur couldn't shake his discomfort at seeing Ford crying over that woman earlier, ranting about spaceships. He hadn't seen someone shed so many tears over space travel since he watched the Apollo 11 launch with Ford. They had gotten misty-eyed and muttered, "They're going the wrong way." Besides strange moments like that, Ford was not one prone to tears. Obviously, they were working through something right now, and Arthur needed to make sure that they were safe until the worst of their foul mood passed.

As soon as the two entered the apartment, Ford planted their feet firmly in the center of the room and announced, “Alright, we’re here. Are you satisfied now?” 

“Nice try, but I’m not leaving until you get in pajamas and brush your teeth.”

Ford stomped one foot and whined.

“Look, I’m going easy on you,” said Arthur. “I could have reminded you to floss, as well.

After Ford stormed into the bedroom, Arthur migrated toward the kitchen and began checking the cupboards for food. He wanted to make sure that Ford had something to eat tomorrow, to get through their hangover. That was supposed to help, right? Or maybe eating just made people more nauseated… Either way, Arthur was dismayed to find that the kitchen was virtually empty. There was a cereal box and a half-eaten carton of fruit snacks in the pantry, plus a single orange and several cans of beer in the fridge. Arthur palmed the orange and examined it.

“Huh,” he thought aloud. “I never knew you were supposed to refrigerate these things.” He paused. “On second thought, Ford’s probably just got it backwards.” 

He replaced the orange in a bowl he found on the countertop and shut the fridge behind him, making a mental note to invite Ford over for dinner more often and make an excuse to drop off some extra groceries the next time he went to the store. 

By the time he returned to the living room, Ford was already tucked into one corner of the sofa, wearing a kaleidoscopic pair of mismatched socks beneath plaid pajama bottoms. Their face was hidden from view, bunched between their arms and knees. Arthur knew something was wrong, because they had made no snarky comment when they entered the room. 

Carefully, he took a seat beside Ford, fidgeting with his watch as he mustered the courage to say something. He glanced over at Ford and winced. Sadness rolled off his friend in waves, like somebody had cranked up the AC and was fanning its icy wrath straight toward Arthur. He shivered, feeling like he was outside again, and swallowed back a tidal wave of loneliness. Although Ford was only an arm’s length away, Arthur felt like he was looking down at them from the top of a deep ocean trench. What could he possibly say to console them when he didn't understand what was wrong? Even if he miraculously got the words out in what vaguely resembled a sentence, there was still a good chance that Ford would forget this conversation by morning.

Before Arthur could muster up the courage to speak, Ford broke the silence. Their voice was smaller than usual, as though it too were folded up to make space in the small room. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But you don’t have to stick around and watch me mope. I promise I won’t go anywhere else tonight. I’m just … so tired.” 

“You should take advantage of that and go to sleep,” Arthur suggested. “Most sour moods don’t carry over into the morning.”

Ford shook their head. “No, I’m not that kind of tired. I don’t need sleep. I need… Ugh, it’s not important.”

Arthur shifted on the sofa, angling his body more toward Ford's. “Yes, it is. What’s bothering you? And how can I help?” 

Ford let out a long exhale that sounded like a tire losing pressure then fixed Arthur with a stare that could melt iron. “Did you know that the word ‘isolated’ comes from the Latin word for ‘island’? As in, ‘detached from others’ and ‘insulated’?”

Arthur shook his head, unsure what to make of this information.

“Yeah, well, I learned that from a random documentary last month," Ford continued. "It was about tectonic plates. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, have you ever felt isolated in the true sense of the word? As though you’re on your own little beach, where you’ve spent the past ten years lighting signal fires and spelling out distress signals with palm leaves, but no one’s noticed – or if they have, they don’t care enough to investigate? And you’re starting to think that maybe you’re never getting off that tiny island, after all? Well, I feel like that, only I’m not on a deserted island at all. In fact, I’m surrounded by other people, day in and day out, who are constantly telling me that it’s fine, that everyone’s miserable, and we’ve just gotta get through this one last day, then the next, then the next. But where does it end? I know what’s beyond this island, and I know that I don’t belong here. But there’s no way for me to get away, and the few people building boats are only concerned with making pointless loops around and around the same old shore, getting nowhere. So, I’m stuck here, on my tiny island, surrounded by other people, just feeling … alone.” Ford lowered their head to avoid eye-contact, their arms tightening around their calves. “And I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I’m tired, Arthur. I’m so tired.” 

For several moments, Arthur said nothing, letting Ford’s words diffuse like a tea bag into hot water. That strange feeling from earlier… Had Arthur been sensing Ford’s primal fears and sense of loneliness? How had he let his friend come to such a dismal point, this painful low, without being alarmed sooner? But then, Ford had always been a little odd, a tad morose, and very much over-inclined to drink. Had Arthur let them suffer in silence, unnoticed, for the past several years of their friendship? Well, not any more. Ford’s isolation ended tonight - or this morning. Arthur never really knew what to make of that strange time between 1 and 4am. 

Before he could second-guess himself, Arthur placed a hand on Ford’s bony arm and squeezed reassuringly. Despite his internal bravado, his voice felt painfully mundane as he said, “I’m here for you, alright, Ford? You’re not completely alone.” Feeling as if that was altogether too short, he added, “I know I’m not the smartest person around, and I don’t understand exactly what it is you’re going through. But you’ve done so much for me, and I care about you a lot, so… If there’s anything I can do to help, I want you to tell me, okay? Just say the word, and I’ll – ”

Ford grabbed Arthur’s hand. At first, Arthur feared that they would shrug it off, just as they had done outside the apartment building. But instead, they ducked under it and guided it to their far shoulder, pressing themself into the curve of Arthur’s side. When Arthur had recovered from the initial shock, he pulled Ford close and rested his head on top of theirs. Ford sighed expansively and contentedly, like an accordion letting out a final puff of air.

“Thanks, Arthur,” they mumbled. After a moment’s hesitation, they reached for Arthur’s free hand and intertwined their fingers. “I know I said that you could go home whenever, but… Would you mind staying with me? At least until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.” Arthur nodded and pressed Ford’s hand, their spindly fingers cold and stiff beneath his. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't cuddle with your friends in real-life, then projecting onto fictional characters is the next best thing. :P


End file.
